


Torn

by Turrislucidus



Series: The Move [2]
Category: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, DeppWonka, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mementoes, Snapshots, The Past, mothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turrislucidus/pseuds/Turrislucidus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Willy Wonka, his childhood friend Terence looking on, shows Charlie Bucket a picture of his, Willy's, mother. Not the picture you'd expect, but then again, maybe it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"For the same reason?"

The words were out before Charlie could call them back. He'd only ever heard about Willy's father, and that not from Willy. Araminta Harriet Ross Tubman, of Underground Railroad fame, was long dead, and if Willy's Araminta, his mother—his real mother—couldn't try Swudge for the same reason, it wasn't a happy one. Charlie dropped his head, sorry he'd spoken, his eyes clouding. He hadn't meant to bring up something sad, it had simply happened.

Pretending not to hear, Willy turned away, leaving them behind, as he tapped his walking-stick in a slow rhythm along the narrow tunnel. The sound echoed back to Charlie and Terence like the tolling of a church bell. Feeling lost, Charlie took a step to follow, but Willy had come to some conclusion, and turning back, they both stopped where they stood.

"I think so. I don't know so."

Willy's voice fell on Charlie's ears like the rays of the full moon, falling to the earth without light.

"Are you coming?"

Charlie, having looked down again, looked up, and took a hesitant step. He took another, not quite as hesitant, and Willy sighed to himself. An apprentice on eggshells would never do. If questions asked by either, cued up a queue of sharpened shards of broken calcium carbonate crystals under foot, why would Charlie want to stay? Down that path lay no future for either of them.

"I have her snapshot. Would you like to see?"

Charlie didn't know if he wanted to or not. Maybe it was none of his business. Maybe it was. He didn't know. Willy seemed to read his mind.

"If I'm only going to teach you about this sort of thing," Willy gestured to the Factory underpinnings that lined the walls of the tunnel, "and not greet you when you get home—which I can tell you now I won't be able to do every day, or even most days, but that doesn't mean what you think that means—then you are right to call me Mr. Wonka. But I've said I'd like you call me Willy, and if, as I'd like, you'll do that, then I'd like to show you this."

Willy had removed from his frock coat pocket the silver, folding case Terence had seen produced, but not shared, in Willy's office. Charlie, reaching out with a trembling hand, took the object. But Charlie wasn't looking at it. He was looking into the eyes of his benefactor, his own eyes shining. Willy was speaking to him in the way adults spoke to each other. As if he and Mr. Wonka were equals. Charlie knew they weren't, the same way he knew he felt better calling Mr. Wonka Mr. Wonka in his head most times, but that was only because, in a fast changing world, it helped Charlie keep his mental balance. Words Charlie hadn't properly listened to at the time, floated back to him.

"You said, 'again'. You said you needed your coat  _again_ ," Charlie breathed, elation dawning. There'd been a reason… a good reason. "Were you out of the Factory when I got home?"

With a tiny smile, the man who everyone knows never leaves his Factory, nodded.

"I was."

"With this? Is that why you have it with you?"

"With the this that you have, yes, and yes, it otherwise lives elsewhere."

Charlie ran his fingertips over the engraved silver, tracing the design. It was curvy, and complicated… some kind of leaves, filling and overflowing a multi-lined border. Though highly polished, it looked old. Charlie didn't need to see what was in this, if it were something private. The feeling that had enveloped him when he returned from school—that though invited, he was nevertheless an interloper—had vanished with what Willy had already said. Hearing it, Charlie felt like a friend… a real friend. Would a friend look at this? They were in the middle of going to fetch his Grandpa George. Looking at this now would hold them up.

As if not finished with reading Charlie's mind, Willy sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged, the Nerd filled cane across his lap. When their eyes were of a level, as Willy sank, Charlie followed suit.

"Go on," Willy said, when they were comfortably settled on the floor, a floor as spotless as the rest of the Factory. "We have time. Open it."

Breaking the eye contact he'd maintained, Charlie opened it. And studied it, his cough suppressing his gasp. His finger hovered above the snapshot's left hand side. Before he went any further, his eyes searched again for Willy's. Anticipating, knowing, Willy leaned forward, nodding encouragingly, the fingers of both his hands entwined in the spiraling glass ridges of his walking-stick; as if he knew if they weren't, they'd reach out for what Charlie was holding, to snatch it back.

Charlie looked down. His finger delicately hovered above the long, diagonal tear he found there, tracing it without touching it, respecting the wound that it was, his eyes returning to Willy's when he was done. How had the photo torn? Willy must know. It must make him sad. The tear wasn't in a good place. Was this all Willy had? Of his mother? Charlie let his eyes do the asking. Willy could answer, if he wanted to. And he did. By way of a silent exchange; subtle shifts in face and body, a back-and-forth, that Terence, forgotten in the shadows, was content to watch. Having remained where he was, Terence, in the dim light, could see nothing of what was in Charlie's hands.

Charlie looked again to the worn photograph. Willy's mother was in it, if Willy said so, but so was Willy, as short as he was then, standing in front of her. He looked so different. He was smiling; smiling with boundless optimism. Smiling as if he took for granted that the world held only wonderful things, specially put there for him to discover. And he was happy. Truly happy; as if he took for granted that everyone he would ever meet would be his loyal friend. Intent, Charlie didn't bother to look up.

"How old are you?"

"Now?" The joke rang hollow, and Willy dropped it almost before it registered. The shadows rustled. "Then? Who can remember?" Willy murmured. "Half your age, I should think."

Younger, Charlie thought. Slight, and thin, and pale, the sort of kid a bully would pounce on, with short hair, and short bangs, as short as they are now, and no gloves, and… and Willy Wonka was a wisp of a creature in this picture. Why, he's as thin as me! Charlie stole a glance. All those layers of clothing. He was probably still thin. Maybe it ran in the family. His mother was thin. She had delicate arms, with dainty hands, and long, tapering fingers. They trailed down Willy's upper arms, her palms resting lightly on his shoulders. Willy wasn't paying her any attention. With his arms at his sides, his hands relaxed, fingers curved, Willy was enthralled by the workings of the camera, its lens the magic entrance to yet another enchanting dimension.

"Do you hate being cooped up here?"

Charlie had no idea where that question had bubbled up from.

"No," answered Willy, as if he'd been expecting it. "I quite like it. I don't feel cooped up at all. Do you?"

"No," said Charlie. "I feel safe."

"Watch out for the machinery," Willy shot back, at once. "And for where you put your feet. And your hands. And for loose clothing. And for what you're doing."

Charlie's head snapped up, his mouth an 'o'. Willy sounded exactly like Grandma Josephine, but unlike her, he was silently laughing as he scolded. The happiness that sprang from within him, so evident in this picture, was unquenchable for long. Safe, Charlie knew, was a feeling, not a reality, anywhere, and Willy was only making the point. Charlie added his laugh to Willy's silent one.

"I mean that," Willy frowned, afraid Charlie wasn't taking him seriously. Machinery, and the rest of it, was fun, but not funny. "And don't eat anything if you don't know exactly what it is, and particularly if you don't know its provenance. I mess around with things. All sorts of things."

"Pro…ven… ance?"

"Where it comes from," said Willy. "It may not be entirely invented yet."

"I will, and I won't," said Charlie, solemnly nodding. He took one last look at the photo. The pose in it seemed familiar, as if he'd seen it recently. 'Course it was a pretty common pose: two people, one in front of the other. And then Charlie realized he  _had_  seen it before. In a photo at Dr. Grant's house, last night. A photo of Willy with Willy's other mother; his mother after this mother. There was something though… something different… Charlie couldn't put his finger on it. He closed the protective case, and handed it back to Willy, who took it eagerly, his pale, beaming face expectant of a comment. Charlie cast about in his mind, coming up with something he hoped wouldn't hurt.

"Your mother has beautiful hands."

That satisfied.

"Thank you. I think so too. And now we are done with this dally. Charlie? Terence? Onward!"

Leaping to his feet, Willy whirled, and soon he was far ahead, the velvet hem of his frock coat fluttering out behind him. And so they followed: Terence mulling over the use of the word 'provenance', and candies he'd eaten that looked like pollens; Charlie, illusory or not, savoring the sweetness of feeling safe, and snug. He'd seen the light in the boy in the photograph; the light in the man he was following now. He'd seen the tear in the creased, yellowed paper. Between the three things that were two things—the tear, and the boy, and the man—Charlie Bucket believed there wasn't anything that Willy Wonka faced, he couldn't overcome.

* * *


	2. Creases

Charlie's timid hand stole into Terence's.

"Do you think," he started, in his quiet voice, "if Willy gets too far ahead, we'll get lost?"

Terence looked down, seeing only the lank, brown hair on the top of Charlie's head, Charlie's resolute eyes glued on the receding form that had all but disappeared in the gloom. As if a firefly were leading them, random flashes of light, reflections off the ridged spirals of Willy's walking-stick, were all they could see.

Terence gave the small hand in his a squeeze, as he looked again to the tunnel in front of them. Retreating by advancing, an interesting strategy, but as far as Willy's present departure went, Terence had his suspicions. 'How can they talk about me, if I'm there?' It was Willy's blithe explanation for sending Terence—instead of attending himself—to a dinner at the Buckets', after Charlie's private tour had ended. Terence remembered the observation now. This had that feel. By this time, Willy had disappeared.

"I suspect, Charlie, there's only one person in this factory who could lose himself in it, which isn't the same as being lost in it, if you catch my drift, and that person just showed you a picture of his mother. As for the rest of us, we may not know where we are, but someone in this Factory does, and they would come and find us."

His upper teeth gently finding the edge of his lower lip, Charlie took his eyes off the dimness ahead, glancing up at Terence. Charlie hoped that was true, but it wasn't his real worry. His real worry, he didn't know if he should bring up. He'd seen the photo. Terence hadn't. What had gone wrong in Charlie's family could be fixed with regular meals, but if that was the picture of his mother Willy treasured, food wouldn't touch what had gone wrong in Willy's family. Not even very sweet food. But Terence had been here. Willy knew that.

"Do you think so?"

It was hard to see, but Terence could hear. There was pain in Charlie's voice; pain for a loss not his own.

"I do, Charlie, you bet, every time. With as many Oompa-Loompas as there are, how could it be otherwise?"

Speaking, listening, Terence was also sorting facts. Willy had said he'd seen a picture of his mother on her passport. And he'd said he hadn't been able to keep it. So this picture wasn't that picture. Passport photos… they show the face, full on. And having shown him this picture's case in his office, and telling him he'd taken it with him to Libby's today, to see if he had a learning curve, but not earlier claiming it as a picture of his mother… there had to be something odd about this one. Blurred, maybe? Stained?

Willy's voice stirred in Terence's head. 'So ask. I'm elsewhere'. Yeah, I get that, old chap, but I'm not gonna. From what you've told me, and shown me, I have my suspicions, and that's enough. There's prying and spying, and here and now, neither suits.

"There aren't any Oompa-Loompas here."

Keeping hold of Charlie's hand, Terence kept his voice chipper.

"Now that you mention it, I suspect you're right. But notice, Charlie, so far, this tunnel is a straight shot. No intersecting tunnels. And there are no doors leading off it. I suspect Willy knows we can't get lost. We just have to follow our noses, and we'll be fine."

"Okay."

Charlie was slowing, his shoulders tense. He thought it again. Terence had been with them when Willy showed him the snapshot. That must mean something. Turning, Charlie withdrew his hand, and stopped. Terence had been here. Charlie hoped that meant spilling the beans was okay.

"Terence?"

Terence almost laughed. Willy rubbed off on everyone around him.

"Charlie."

"That photo had no head."

Delving into it now was different. He hadn't been the one to bring it up.

"Headless, you say?" That wasn't the surprise it would have been, had Willy not given him the clues to let him suss it out, and Terence's tone was as blasé as he could make it. "D'ya think our Willy is related to the Headless Horseman, by way of the distaff side?"

Terence's lack of a shocked reaction was reassuring, and the encouragement Charlie needed.

"It's not funny, Terence!" Who knew what 'distaff side' meant, but Charlie didn't care. Terence didn't get it! "Her head was torn off, and most of her shoulders. And the paper was all full of creases, like someone had made it into a ball. Willy was in it. He was standing in front of her, like in the picture over at Dr. Grant's house, with his other mother."

"Thea."

"Mrs. Grant," Charlie agreed, less agitated, pleased with Terence's now somber demeanor. "Anyway, the part of the picture Willy was in wasn't torn. He was really young looking." Charlie knit his brows. "Way younger than I am. And he was really happy. Not that fake happy he does sometimes… really happy."

"So that's good."

"But it's sad." Charlie said, his eyes imploring. "Who would have torn it like that? And mashed it up?

"Ya got me, kiddo." But Terence had a pretty good idea. Dollars to doughnuts, the mangler would a much older someone Terence had met on the spear side, who had given him chills. "No one we want to know, I suspect."

Charlie forced a brave smile. "You suspect a lot of things."

"I suspect so do you. And I suspect if we don't get a move on, Willy will get tired of waiting, and leave without us. Your grandma wants your grandpa back."

Charlie didn't budge.

"Taking away someone's house, without telling them, is a bad thing." Charlie swallowed, his slim fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. "But it was one thing. With this, there are two things." Charlie swallowed again, but afterward, his jaw was set. "Are there more things?"

"I suspect so," Terence said, after a considering pause, his voice deliberate. "Would that make you not want to stay?"

Charlie had whirled at 'suspect so', and Terence wasn't sure if Charlie had heard the question. He was off at a jog, the way Willy had gone. Terence had to hustle to catch up, and doing so, discovered Charlie had heard him. But the answer was muffled, as Charlie didn't bother to look back.

"No! It makes me want to be there, in case Willy wants to remember anything else!"

**Author's Note:**

> An excerpt from "The Move", with more of same posted over on the other website.


End file.
